


It Wasn't Supposed to Happen Like This

by TarnishedArmour



Series: Life Happens [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarnishedArmour/pseuds/TarnishedArmour
Summary: Life happens; so do flatmates.  So, it seems, does love.A 100% non-squicky Hermione/Arthur pairing.  Guaranteed.





	1. Night

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd originally by the lovely AuntieL, and I've since monkeyed with it, so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm not rich enough to own Harry Potter or any of the characters. This isn't making any money either....dammit.
> 
> A/N: Oh, right. You didn't particularly care about those two things, did you? Well they're important. MORE important, I understand, is how does this Hermione/Arthur pairing (I'll pause for the gagging noises to stop...ready? Good...) manage to be non-squicky. I'll tell you this much: No teenage hormones are involved, no lecherous leering after girls still in school, no contrived potions or general pervy creeping about. Other than that, you'll have to read it to find out the secret of squickless Hermione/Arthur. And SHHHH! ...it's a seeeecret. *snicker*

The funeral had been beautiful. 

Aesthetically, the day was perfect, the traditional pyre was well-laid, and the woman laid on the pyre was perfectly serene in death as she never had seemed to be in life.

Emotionally, the day was perfect, too. There were tears at the viewing, at the solemn rites; there was laughter at the extended eulogy, stories of the woman loved and, yes, feared for her maternal instincts; and there was love. The outpouring of love was one that she had never experienced before. It overwhelmed everything, almost like one of those hugs that seemed to choke and suffocate while being exactly what a sobbing witch needed, no matter the age or situation.

The pain was exquisite, and she wasn’t even the woman’s daughter. She tried to imagine what the family felt, and she couldn’t. She could only feel the ache in her heart for the woman who had left them all, though not of her own free will. 

Hermione remembered, two years before, the news that had rocked the Burrow and the Weasley family, including herself and Harry, the Honorary Weasleys. Harry had already married Ginny, and Ron had married Lavender, but she was still on the outside, looking in. Loved, trusted, the little sister and best friend -- but never the daughter, not like Harry, who had been the son-by-heart. No, Hermione’s acceptance by the Weasleys had been from her own generation. She was a bit too much for Molly to accept as a proper witch, and she’d never really gotten to know Arthur.

Molly had sat down and calmly explained that she had cancer; it had been growing for some time, and the tumors were spread throughout her entire body, in the lymph nodes and major organs. There was nothing Muggle science could do, and little that magic could. She refused all of the spell treatments, since the cure was never going to come and the treatments would make a younger, healthier witch too weak to walk.

Instead, Molly was determined to live life to its fullest. She had lost one son to battle, another to his own arrogance, but she had gained a daughter in Fleur, another in Lavender, and a son in Harry. She had even decided she really did love Hermione, though she believed the girl to be an odd duck.

The family rallied around her, and Molly’s last two years were filled with wonderful memories and laughter, dinners and children -- Harry and Ginny and Ron and Lavender had both had children born about six months after the wedding dates, so Molly was content with getting more grandchildren and holding little babies before they became screaming toddlers. George and Anglina had married, little Wendy being their contribution to the wealth of grandchildren, and Charlie had met and married a witch who was expecting when the end came.

Hermione learned to cook, determined to treat Molly’s lessons as carefully as any she had taken at Hogwarts, and she had been amazed at how much she had learned. Molly had also taught her household charms and ways to budget so that any check, no matter how small, would get her through the month.

The fierce matriarch never seemed ill, though. She was still laughing and teasing and yelling at errant sons, cooking and cleaning and knitting Weasley sweaters. Most days, no one would have guessed that her body was riddled with tumors, or that she ever experienced pain. There were signs, though, toward the end, that she was ill. She finally took pain potions, the mildest she could to continue going on. She lost those baby-pounds that had never quite gone away after Percy. She slept a little later, went to bed a little earlier.

One day, she just never woke up. That was all. She had lived her allotment of days, and, when Arthur’s howl of anguish echoed through the Burrow in the early morning light, there had been a peaceful smile on her face.

Later that day, the wake had been held, a solemn event that had everyone who had known the witch coming to bid farewell, to offer condolences.

The next day, that perfect funeral...and Hermione felt the tears on her cheeks as every Weasley by blood and marriage lifted their wands and lit the pyre. Magical fire burned white at funerals. 

White was the colour of Death in the Wizarding World. White for births, for the child may not be magical, a kind of death for the family to bear a Squib; white for weddings, for the bride left her family, a kind of death of childhood and comfortable familial bonds; white for funerals, for the death of the body, the truest death of them all.

Hermione wore white.

***

Hours later, the sun was down, the Burrow was quiet, with couples sleeping in the upstairs rooms, the brothers bunking with their families to give Hermione, the only unmarried female there, space of her own. She didn’t care. It wasn’t like sleep was coming to her, not after losing the woman she considered her magical mother, though they had never been very close. Nightmares still plagued her nearly four years after Voldemort had been defeated, and, unlike her friends, she’d no warm body to hold her through them.

Instead of lying in bed in Percy’s old room at the head of the stairs, she went to the kitchen, remembering a recipe Molly had taught her for a simple sleeping draught -- a base of warm milk, a dollop of amaretto, a healthy slug of brandy, and enough vanilla to make it smell like Christmas cookies. It never failed her. She found the pan and the milk, the liqueur and liquor, the vanilla in the cabinet with a tub of flour large enough to provide a week’s worth of bread and cakes for the entire Weasley clan, fired up the stove, and quietly began mixing Molly’s version of Dreamless Sleep Potion. It was considerably cheaper and much better going down.

A soft shuffle behind her made her turn. Arthur was standing there, a lost look in his eyes as a sad smile curved his lips. 

“Would you like some?” Hermione asked, not knowing what else to do, to ask. She was truly awful at comforting people, and she knew it. The best she could ever do was offer her knowledge, in this case, of a sleeping draught.

“Please,” he said, sitting at the table, looking around the kitchen, looking for something, someone, who would never be in the room again.

Hermione felt it for herself then, the loss of the glue that held everything at the Burrow together. And there she was, in the woman’s kitchen, pretending she could do something, anything, that would fill the vacuum left behind by Molly’s absence.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she blurted, blushing because she knew that was something so damned obvious it was ridiculous. “I have nightmares...still.” The last word was so quiet that Arthur would have never have heard it two days ago.

He nodded, watching Hermione as she stirred the brandy and amaretto into the milk, keeping the film from forming as the milk warmed.

“I understand,” he said, voice just as soft. “I... haven’t slept alone in over thirty years. It seems I’ve forgotten how.”

Hermione added the vanilla and nodded. “It was so strange, after the Final Battle, when Harry and Ron and I were sleeping in separate rooms again. We spent so much time together... Sometimes, it still feels odd. If we don’t get together regularly, everything goes strange. Like...like a wand that isn’t fitted to us.” It was as close as she could come to showing him she understood what it was to lose someone close, that presence that one counted on, just to live and breathe without suffocating on the terror, the stress.

He nodded, but she couldn’t see as she poured up the fragrant warm milk in two heavy mugs. She put the pan in the sink and filled it with soapy water. A quick charm later and the pan was clean and dry, stored back in the cabinet. She just couldn’t bring herself to let something stay out of place in Molly’s kitchen.

Arthur took the cup and closed his eyes as he sipped the familiar soothing mixture. It was perfect, and he remembered hundreds of nights sitting here, like this, with Molly. He took another sip to wash down the tightness in his throat.

They didn’t talk anymore, but sipped their drinks until they felt the sweet lassitude of the warm, familiar beverage take effect. A sleepy charm later, the mugs were back in place and Hermione and Arthur were leaving the kitchen together.

Arthur went to the room he had shared with Molly for nearly thirty-four years, but stopped at the door. Hermione stopped before her foot touched the first step. Neither one could face the memories alone.

She didn’t say anything, but walked over to stand beside him. She stepped close to him and leaned up to kiss his cheek. When she settled back on her heels, he pulled her into an embrace and closed his eyes. 

All day long, he had stood strong for his sons and daughters, for his family. All day he had worked to honour the woman he had loved for so long. All day he had dreaded the night, knowing that she wouldn’t be there anymore.

He let go of her, smiled his thanks at her and received a grateful smile in return. Hermione turned back to the stairs and Arthur went into his room. He had just sat on his side of the bed with his head bowed, the side near the door, when a shadow fell across his line of sight. He looked up.

Hermione stood at the door, the light from the large windows behind her giving her presence away.

They didn’t speak. He took off his dressing robe, she removed her housecoat, and they slid into the bed almost at the same time.

She touched his shoulder, and he turned to face her. The kindness, the warmth in her eyes broke him.

Hermione said nothing. There was nothing to say. She simply held the wizard in her arms as he sobbed into her shoulder, letting him hold her close enough to squeeze out some of the pain. Slowly, his broken breaths slowed and deepened. Her eyelids grew heavy and her breathing matched his.

Somehow, in the darkness, they slept peacefully.

***

The next morning, they woke early, before anyone else was awake. Instead of speaking, Hermione smiled at Arthur, who smiled at her in return. The sorrow still haunted their eyes, but there was something more in those smiles: a heartfelt gratitude that they had not had to suffer the night alone.

Hermione rose, went up to the room she had been expected to stay in for the time she spent at the Burrow, and then commandeered the upstairs shower. It wasn’t long until she was dressed and ready to face the day, going downstairs to begin breakfast, and hopefully at least one other person with some knowledge of cookery would join her.

Arthur had followed his own morning routine, keenly feeling the loss of his morning kisses and caresses with his wife of thirty-four years, stepping into the kitchen only moments after Hermione.

“Would you like some help?” he asked softly.

“Please,” Hermione replied. She indicated the stacked plates and cups, the pitcher that was waiting for the morning juice and the coffee pot and tea kettles that needed to be prepared. Arthur nodded and began taking care of the parts of breakfast that didn’t require a degree from Molly’s School of Household Management.

It wasn’t long until the sounds of small children and sleepy adults filled the house, various family members coming to the quiet kitchen, filling the emptiness of Molly’s kitchen with their love for one another.

Arthur looked around at his family and realized he couldn’t live in this house any longer, not without Molly. He would speak quietly with Bill and Harry, knowing their families were the largest at the moment, and the children would need more space than they had at Shell Cottage, more room to play outside than was available at Grimmauld Place. Ron and Lavender would like Shell Cottage, if Bill wanted to move. With two daughters, a son, and Fleur pregnant again, this time with twin boys, it was time for a larger house.

Meanwhile, he simply looked around at the table and realized how much he loved his family.

_We did well, Mollywobbles,_ he thought to her in the hereafter. _We did well._


	2. Day

It took three days before he could approach Bill and Harry, before he could find the words to say that didn’t sound like he was running away from his life as their father, from the home he had built with Molly. In those three days, he hadn’t slept alone once. She wasn’t Molly, and he hadn’t broken down again after that first night, but he had slept. Facing the emptiness of the rambling little house after Hermione had been so gentle and generous with her presence...it made him ill to consider. Instead, he was doing what had to be done.

“What is it, Dad?” Bill asked, curious. Harry just watched closely, understanding there was something very important that was about to happen.

“I’ve been thinking about the Burrow,” Arthur admitted slowly, “and about several conversations I had with your mother when Ginny was still at school. This house needs a family in it, not just one old man.” He smiled at Bill and Harry, one of those sad smiles that reached his eyes, but never really brightened them. “I’d like to surrender the wards to you, Bill, or to you, Harry, since you and Ginny have mentioned having a large family several times. Children need space to play, and a snug house, and maybe even a ghoul in the attic to liven things up every so often.”

“I... Dad, Fleur and I were talking about selling Shell Cottage, but if you’d like to live there, we can trade.” Bill seemed a little flustered, but not really surprised. Charlie and Sophie were a few months away from their first joining the large-and-growing Weasley clan, George had only Angelina and their daughter, and Ron didn’t want more than two children. Harry and he were the only two who seemed to be trying to repopulate the Wizarding World all by themselves, with the enthusiastic participation of their wives. He’d expected to be offered the Burrow, but not like this. Not now.

“Ginny and I plan to stay at Grimmauld Place,” Harry said softly. “We’ve already got plans for turning the attics into a kind of park, magically shielded and charmed to seem like another normal roof, of course. Bill, you should move here.” At Bill's considering look, he added, “Ron and Lavender can move to Shell Cottage, to make things a little easier until everything is...more settled for her. It’s a good place for a baby to live, and, given her condition,” he referred delicately to the same kind of scars Bill had received from Fenrir Greyback years ago, but more pronounced effects in the delicate witch than in the strapping wizard, “well, she’d like the seaside.” 

“Where will you live?” Bill asked his father, perplexed. He knew that Arthur’s new Ministry position as Muggle-born Liaison had a better salary than his old one in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division, but purchasing any wizarding property was exorbitantly expensive.

“I thought I’d move to London, closer to the office.” Closer to thousands of ways to distract himself from feeling adrift and alone in the world. Closer to thousands of people who would be _there_ , even if they never saw him. Closer to the kind of noise and chaos that he had lived with and loved for so long in this country house.

Harry nodded again, eyes understanding, voice encouraging as he said, “That makes sense. There’s a new Muggle-Wizarding apartment complex near the Ministry buildings. It’s visible to Muggles, but it’s a Wizarding residence with what they’re calling Muggle-style rooms -- no charms or magic in them.”

“I’d heard about it,” Arthur admitted, “and I’ve recommended it to a few Muggle parents with little witches or wizards, to help them acclimate to their new world.”

Bill realized then what was happening, why the move was so important and so sudden. His heart ached and his eyes filled for a moment. He cleared his throat. 

“How soon?” he asked, voice rough. 

“Tomorrow, after everyone goes back to their homes,” Arthur said, mind made up. Now all he had to do was find a place to live and pack up. “We’ll transfer the wards then.”

“I’ll tell Gin,” Harry said, standing. “We’ll Owl your address to everyone, once you’ve moved.”

Arthur shook his head. “No. The Burrow was made Unplottable and Undetectable after I took my position as Undersecretary. My address can’t be published anymore, but if you send an Owl to me, it will always find me.”

Harry nodded. He took a step over to the man he considered his magical father, his biological father long since gone and not even a memory. Breaking every rule of social behaviour among English men who were not blood relatives in a deeply emotional situation, he embraced his magical father and whispered into his ear.

“We love you, Dad. If you need anything, anything at all, just call us.”

Arthur embraced his son-in-law and then stepped back, nodding. He couldn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

Harry went to find Ginny and his son, James, out in the garden. 

Bill hugged his father, too, and the wealth of understanding that passed between them reminded Bill that, despite the many times it seemed that Arthur had let Molly run over him, that he had given up on discipline or rules, that he had given up on advancing his own career, the man before him had taught him how to be a man, a father, a husband. Now, Bill was learning how to simply go on, letting go of _things_ and _places_ , in order to let his children live and love.

He would never forget.

***

“Hello, Arthur,” Hermione said, looking up from her desk in Records. It was late, but she could stay a little longer if Arthur needed her help. She was the best in the department, and she tended to handle sensitive Muggle-Wizarding projects. It was why she had her own office instead of a large cubicle out in the main room. “Did you need something sensitive?”

“Just some information about the Muggle-Wizarding apartment complex a few blocks from here,” he replied. “Bill and his family have moved into the Burrow, and Ron and his family out to Shell Cottage. Since George lives here in London, and Harry, Ginny, and Charlie aren’t that far from here, I thought it was time.”

“Oh.” Hermione shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid that there are no openings in the building, but I live there. If you’d like to stay with me for a while, there’s supposed to be another set of flats opening a little closer to Diagon Alley later this year.”

Arthur considered the offer, then nodded. “It won’t be for long, Hermione.”

Hermione looked at him carefully. He wasn’t running away from the Burrow, and he wasn’t going to forget Molly, but he couldn’t quite make it alone, not yet. She understood. She hadn’t slept a full night in over two years until those nights with him. If she admitted it to herself, she could honestly say she had been dreading the trip home, facing an empty three-bedroom apartment with Muggle and Wizarding rooms and an echoing silence.

“Just let me get my things and I’ll key the wards to you tonight.”

As quickly and easily as that, Hermione Granger had gotten a flatmate, and Arthur a reprieve on living alone.

***

“And here we are,” Hermione said, opening the door for Arthur. “Go on in. I’ll key the wards from out here as you pass through.”

Smiling at the old method of keying wards to someone, the most secure method, truth be told, Arthur walked under the door and felt a heavy wash of magic pin him in place for several seconds. This was why Muggle residences were never properly warded, and why this Muggle-Wizarding apartment complex was such a welcome innovation. Hybrid families and newly magical lines could begin to experience everyday magic and learn the customs of the Wizarding World without worrying about the Statute of Secrecy. There was even a special Muggles Only entrance for family and friends who were not aware of the Wizarding World, and anything that seemed a strange could be passed off as “odd sorts on the fifth floor, you know the type.”

It was a lovely building, with three flats per floor and eleven floors. Hermione lived in 11-1, with a lovely view of the city and a private, shielded balcony on each side of her flat. She had two corners and one full side view, definitely a luxury apartment for a single witch, though it spoke to hoping to one day fill the rooms with her family.

“This is the greatroom,” she said, indicating the large central room that bisected her flat. "The kitchen and one bedroom are on that side,” she pointed to the left, “though I use that room as my home office and library, so it’s not really suited for a bedroom without some serious charmwork. On this side, there is my room, the other bedroom, and storage. There’s also a little side-room that I use just for random things, but if you’d like to use it as a second office, you’re welcome to do so.”

“I don’t generally bring work home, Hermione,” he replied, noting the layout. “Are all the rooms Muggle or Wizarding?”

“Each room has elements of both. The greatroom is bisected on the diagonal, so from this corner,” she pointed to the side where her room was and by the door, “to that corner,” she indicated the far corner on the other side of the flat by the balcony, “is magical--charms and the like work perfectly here. The other side, though, and most of the kitchen, are Muggle. One corner of my office is Muggle, so the computer works and certain reference books and notebooks are kept pristine, and the television has to stay on the Muggle side of the greatroom, as do the rest of the electronics. 

“The two bedrooms over here,” she indicated the side with her room, “are mostly magical, with a small corner set aside for Muggle things that don’t mix well with magic. The other two rooms haven’t been keyed either way, so they’re just a jumble of magical and non-magical stuff.” She shrugged. “If we need to change it, we can. I own this flat, and I’ll probably live here for a long time, so I control the wards and spells.”

“It’s a lovely flat,” Arthur said, looking around. It was. The colours were warm neutrals, the windows huge and bright, even in the English twilight, and the entire space felt like it was a home, though not a busy, chaotic home like the one he was used to. There was precious little of Hermione stamped on the walls, though, indicating her time had not so far been spent on turning her flat into _her_ flat. It was just a place she stayed, for now.

They walked over to the room across from hers and Hermione keyed the wards to him again, this time for personal privacy, though she could always enter every room in her house. These wards would ensure Arthur's privacy from visitors, but, for her, they were more like a sign on the door to be left alone. The owner of the house, the keeper of the wards, would always have access to every room, so Hermione's respect for his privacy was personal preference, not magically enforced. After a moment’s hesitation, she repeated Arthur's signature in the wards on her door, the connecting bathroom, and the office, allowing him entrance at any time, going so far as to make him second only to her in the manipulation of the wards; a user, but not a keeper of the wards. 

“Just in case,” she murmured, when he gave her a questioning look. He nodded, and she was grateful she didn’t have to explain. Arthur went into his room and emptied his pockets, enlarging his boxes and trunks one by one, placing everything with judicious flicks of his wand. “I’ll go start dinner,” Hermione murmured, uncomfortable with watching him unpack, though she couldn’t say why.

Arthur nodded in reply, the strangeness of leaving the Burrow and moving to a different home, even temporarily, catching up to him at last. 

***

Dinner was a quiet affair, talk about work and the changes in Diagon Alley since the war the main focus of their conversation.

That night, Arthur stood at Hermione’s door, catching her eye as she sat on the side of her bed. When she saw him, she nodded once.

They were both just grateful they didn’t have to sleep alone.


	3. Morning

Three weeks later, Hermione shifted in her sleep. The weather was getting colder, and she liked the slight chill in the air inside, too, because it reminded her of her childhood home, were the thin glass of the old windows and the single-board construction with practically no insulation couldn’t keep out winter’s chill. It reminded her of winters at Hogwarts, especially those first few years, when the cold stone seemed to pull in the winter air and still managed to radiate the joy of learning. She liked being covered in layers of warm blankets, even though she still wore a tiny sleepshirt to bed. The chill of the room seeped through her blanket -- she needed another one, but didn’t want to get it -- so she shifted toward the heat beside her.

Instead of the usual pajama-covered shoulder, she felt warm skin against her. When she had added a blanket to the bed, she had noticed that Arthur had shed a layer of clothing in a typical male response to avoid getting too hot to sleep at night. She hadn’t considered what would happen if she wasn’t warm enough.

Her hand touched his skin as her body pressed against his. He was wearing only boxers. The feel of his skin against hers, of his hairy body against her smooth skin, distracted her. She hadn’t been fully asleep yet. He hadn’t been, either.

Arms that were stronger than she had supposed, though for a long time she'd not considered them at all, wrapped around her, and she felt her ear press against the warm skin of his shoulder. She slid one hand over his chest, wondering at the crispness of the hair on his chest. Her leg, of its own accord, drifted over his as she fitted her chilled body to his heat. Hairy legs under her smooth one reminded her of too many nights alone in a bed that had, once, been warmed by a man she thought she had loved.

Hermione Granger wasn’t alone because she chose to be. She had been loved, once. It was never Ron for her, and, once the Final Battle was over and they tried a kiss again, they realized they would never be more than friends. Neither begrudged the death of a romantic dream that had been born of stress and proximity over years of adventure and near-death experiences. In many ways, it was a relief.

No, Hermione had loved and been loved by another wizard, one she had only met after the war was over. He had made her laugh, gotten her to relax when the silence became too deep, kept her nightmares away. He had even proposed, only to leave when he found out she couldn’t have children. The curse from Dolohov in fifth year had destroyed one ovary and sliced through her fallopian tubes, one edge of the curse nicking and scarring a tiny portion of her uterus. She still had her cycles, but there was no way for her eggs to reach her womb. A round of Cruciatus from Bellatrix had damaged her womb further, making carrying a child to term even after being implanted with embryos impossible.

Warm, strong hands held her close, and the feel of a man’s body beside her, with so little in the way of her touch-starved skin... It was an exquisite feeling.

Arthur felt himself hold her tighter, the weight he had lost in those last hectic months of the war hadn’t returned, and the stress of watching Molly slowly disappear from his life had brought him back to nearly his physical peak. His muscles weren’t as hard as they had been when he was wrangling six small boys and working a full-time job while caring for most of the maintenance work on the house and yards, but he hadn't become weak. The feel of silken skin touching his, the rounded curves of a well-made woman, the taut muscles padded lightly from her desk job... It was too much. He was only a man, and she was only a woman.

It had been years since she had been touched by man, years since hands had skimmed down her back and slipped under her little sleep shirt, years since calloused hands held her tight as fingers rubbed circles on her back. Hermione shifted against him, seeking out more contact with him, needing more.

Arthur felt the heat coursing through him again, something he thought he could never feel again after that last night with Molly seven months ago. She hadn’t asked him to stop, but he knew her well, and she had been in pain. When he had slowed, intending to stop, she had whispered, “One more time, Arthur,” and he had been helpless. He had slowed, yes, and that night he had made love to her one last time, letting her feel his love and his magic through his touch and his body; feeling hers in return. She had wept in his arms afterward, and he had left tears in her hair. He didn’t try to tell himself she didn’t know he had wept, too, because the woman had known him like no one else. That night had been an echo of their first together, both so overcome with emotion they could only cling together in the darkness, wishing the night would never end, praying for dawn so the crushing weight of their love would lighten to its everyday, ordinary weight. The heat that filled him now was different.

He moved, pushing her onto her side, then her back, leaning up to hover at her side, his hand low on her belly under her little top. 

Brown eyes met blue, and there was no doubt, no hesitation to be found.

He leaned down and kissed her. She kissed him back, opening for him, her tongue teasing his lip as he shifted to cover her, his weight on his arms.

Hermione felt his heat now, and it was filling her from toes to ears, making her hands slide up his sides and wrap around his back, holding him closer, closer.

Hands drifted. Hermione lifted her back and moved her arms over her head to help him pull off her shirt. His boxers were next, her hands sliding down his hips and over his buttocks as she pushed the elastic down. One hand left her skin for a moment while he loosened the waistband from his erection. She arched up to help him take down her knickers. 

Skin pressed against skin, then, and still they had done little more than kiss and let hands roam over backs and sides. He looked down at her, his hips cradled between her thighs, and felt her knees draw up against his sides.

Without a word, he slid himself against her, found her entrance, and pressed forward. He watched her eyes fall shut as she arched her back, the feel of him making her moan softly. She was hot and wet and so tight around him that he hoped, prayed she had had a lover. A few inches more told him she had, and the relief almost brought him.

He shivered under her hands as he filled her. When he was fully seated inside her, he kissed her again. She sighed softly as his lips caressed hers. He felt perfect. 

Everything about his body was perfect, his chest pressing lightly against her nipples, his arms wrapped around her, his hips between her legs, his waist wrapped by her legs, his length touching the end of her, his width stretching her for the first time in years. When he began to rock against her, she moved with him, the heat in her reaching out to the heat in him.

He moved slowly, carefully, wanting this exquisite feeling to last. _Needing_ this to last. 

They moved together for a long time, letting their bodies take them on a slow, intense rise toward pleasure and something that wasn’t loneliness, emptiness, silence.

Hermione gasped as her hips rose to meet his, her breath coming short as her magic danced around her in soft golden sparkles. Arthur kept his pace steady, working into her over and over again, his breath quickening as his magic wound around her, drawing her tighter to him. 

She had never known a wizard’s magic could feel like this, like a dozen powerful arms holding her tight, holding her close, urging her to let go and just feel.

So damned long since he had felt a witch’s magic teasing him with a thousand little prickles of pleasure, those golden stars touching his skin and drawing a groan from his lips. 

He and his magic held her tighter, she and her magic began to flutter around him, the feel of both intensifying as she cried out under him and her body locked. A strangled groan and a few sharp thrusts of his hips against her, and his magic and his arms were clasping her so hard and close that she could feel only him. Every ounce of her magic and sensation drew down to where he spilled inside her, and she understood then the power of taking a wizard into her body.

With her former fiancé, she had felt passion and pleasure, but her magic had never reached for his, never responded to her physical passions. Her former fiancé had been a wizard, yes, but he had made love to her like a Muggle, all tongue and hands and touch. She could never accept such empty caresses again.

Arthur pressed his lips to her shoulder, forced his arms to loosen, just a little, and revelled in the feel of _witch_. No, she hadn’t nearly torn him apart with her magic, the way Molly used to, but he hadn’t expected to feel her magic touch him at all. It was something that could only happen when both parties were present in the moment and lost in the feel of one another.

He lifted his head and was met with the sweetest kiss. When he looked down at her face, he could see the warm smile, the peaceful eyes of a witch who had known pleasure. He smiled down at her, unaware that his own eyes held that same peace and warmth, the sorrow merely a shadow in the blue.

 _Thank you, Molly,_ he thought to his wife, _for reminding me what it is to touch the magic. Thank you for this witch. I love you._

Hermione looked at the wizard holding her and offered her own thanks to his late wife. _Thank you for letting me take your place, Molly, if only for a little while._

They rolled together so she was resting against his shoulder, and, without needing to speak, fell into a deep sleep.

***

They didn’t join every night, or even most nights. Sometimes they simply curled together against the winter chill and slept. Other nights, she would feel his hands slide against her back in that certain way, and she would pull him over her. Their magic always joined their bodies in finding pleasure, and, always, there was a gentle peace that welled up inside them and spilled over into their dreams afterward. Neither had the need to thank Molly afterward again, and neither knew the other had thought of the witch who had been so _present_ in their lives that first night.

Hermione knew, after three months of having Arthur in her bed, two as her lover, that the idyll was too perfect to remain undetected. Her friends -- his children -- would come to visit, and that would be it. The quietude they had found in the night would be discovered, and it would no longer be just something that drove the cold winter away. It would become an issue.

***

Arthur was still asleep in her bed, and Hermione was making breakfast when the door to her flat opened. Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Lavender came in, children left at the Burrow with Fleur and Bill, for an impromptu breakfast visit. Each brought something for the table, and Hermione smiled at them, giving each a warm hug.

It was Ginny who noticed a few of the little things that Arthur had brought from the Burrow scattered in the kitchen and greatroom. It was Ginny who asked why she had them. 

It was Arthur who walked out of Hermione’s bedroom in his flannel pajama bottoms and a simple white t-shirt, hair finger-combed and eyes still sleepy. It was Arthur who slid his arm around her, eyes closed, and kissed her shoulder, not registering their audience.

“Arthur,” Hermione murmured, eyes closed, preparing for the worst kind of accusations to be levelled at her.

It was Ron who broke the shocked silence.

“Dad?”

With one word, Hermione could feel the sudden wakefulness in him. His spine stiffened, back tense; his eyes flew open, no hint of sleep in them now; his head turned and he saw. 

He saw two of his children sitting at the kitchen table with their spouses beside them. He saw the worry in Hermione’s eyes as she prepared to lose her friends for having him stay with her, for having him in her bed. He saw, too, the things she couldn’t. 

There was no accusation in eyes blue as his own; no anger in brown eyes so like Molly's for the corruption of a girl’s father; no horror in pretty hazel eyes framed by two short scars on the left side; no coldness in eyes green as emeralds. He saw then what they did: He had done exactly what Molly had told him to do. He had found a witch to love, and one who would love him and all of his family.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It wasn’t supposed to be an accident, not at his age, to find love again. It wasn’t supposed to be something that he stumbled over in the dark as he joined with a witch in her bed.

Hermione waited, waited, waited. No one spoke. No one moved. She felt her breath grow shorter, quicker. She looked at her friends, then up at Arthur.

He saw the fear in her eyes and did the only thing he could to prove to her that this thing between them was not begrudged or disliked. He kissed her, soft on the lips, letting his magic surround her again.

At the feel of his arms and magic around her, Hermione sighed softly and let her magic sparkle against his. It wasn’t a long or overtly passionate kiss, but Arthur and Hermione were not overtly passionate people, not when it came to sharing the story of their bed. When the kiss ended, Hermione smiled at him. Looking over at her friends, she could see the warmth of their approval and surprise in their faces. 

“Yes, Ron?” Arthur finally replied.

“Would you like tea or coffee this morning?” came Ron’s question.

Arthur smiled at his youngest son. _Yes, Molly, we did well._

He helped Hermione into her seat beside him and held out a coffee mug for Ron to fill. _I love you, Moll, but you were right. I have to live._

_I’ll miss you, my lover, my love, but I have to live the life I have. I promised you I would only come in my time, and now I think I can keep that promise. I promised you more than that, though, didn’t I?_

_It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, but I think I even found love._

Hermione smiled at her friends and offered the bacon plate, taking two for herself. Laughter and easy conversation filled the air.

_I’ll take care of him, Molly. I promise. I think I love him already. You won’t approve, but I don’t think we’ll ever marry. You know why. I wanted love, and I remember telling you that when Jarome left me. You told me it would happen one day, that I would find someone to love and who would love me, too, but I don’t think it was supposed to happen like this._

Harry looked at his friend closely. He watched Arthur pour Hermione another cup of tea, hand her the lemon for her strong Chinese blend. 

“So,” Ginny asked, eyes sparkling impishly, “when’s the wedding?”

Hermione’s hand stilled on the table and she looked over at Ginny, stricken. A warm hand covered hers and when she turned, she saw warm blue eyes and that sweet smile she had seen so often in recent days. 

“We’ll let you know,” Arthur told his daughter, who nodded, acknowledging the slight censure in his tone.

 _Perhaps a little too well, Mollywobbles,_ he thought to his late wife. _But then, Ginevra was always_ your _daughter._

He would never admit it, but he could have sworn he heard Molly’s wicked chuckle and her voice whispering in his ear, _“And don’t you ever forget it!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lyrical telling; there is a second work in the series (that I will begin posting when I can) that is more of the day-to-day of making this relationship work within the context of family and friends. The name of that story is When Events Conspire, and it will likely be followed by others segments of life for Hermione and Arthur. Look for it to come in the next few weeks, but I will not guarantee a posting start-data.
> 
> Happy Reading!  
> TA


End file.
